


ghosts haunting hotel bars

by VampireSpider



Category: The Halcyon (TV)
Genre: AU after 1x07, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-25 05:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9804173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampireSpider/pseuds/VampireSpider
Summary: Toby and Adil, two years on.Or, of all the bars in all the hotels in all of London, why did Toby Hamilton have to walk into this one?





	1. The Claremont

**Author's Note:**

> The not-quite-a-Casablanca-AU that no one wanted. Started pre-1x07, but contains some spoilers for that episode.

Adil always keeps an eye on the servicemen when they come in. Of course, on principle, the Claremont Bar is always open to members of his majesty’s armed forces and honoured to host them. In reality, the same rules apply here as anywhere else: the bar is always open to officers, no matter what their behaviour, and the smallest amount of disruption will get enlisted men politely invited to find a more suitable bar. Mr Robinson, the manager of the Claremont, had stressed this as much as possible without ever actually saying it.

The uniformed men making their way into the bar at the moment are officers, seven of them, army not air force, and this looks to be their first stop of the evening. Adil breathes out slowly. They’ll be easy. He catches David’s eye and nods, and David walks over to where they’re settling down at a set of tables near the band, with easy access to the dance floor. He’s found it’s better to take their order at the table; they’re less likely to cause a nuisance if their movement is limited. Yesterday there had been the unpleasantness with the captain and Ruth, and Adil would prefer tonight be a quiet night.

He gets his wish; the servicemen are relatively subdued, a few days into their leave by Adil’s reckoning – and he’s become very good at recognising the signs. Watching the patrons has always been part of the job, but the war’s made it into an art, catching a political argument before it starts, subtly suggesting an amorous couple finds a more discreet setting, derailing the young soldier before he makes an unwelcome advance. Sometimes, Adil thinks Mr Garland would be impressed with him.

He serves the youngest daughter of the Duke of Northumberland and her fiancé, a promising young lawyer, and makes sure David is careful with the measures for the officers. At nine o’clock, like clockwork, the Count and Countess Wolski descend, and they monopolise Adil’s time for a while. The Countess likes to quiz him on his knowledge of the English, leaning forward conspiratorially, ‘we’re all foreigners together’ in her manners. “You know so much,” she says, patting his arm as he passes her husband his martini, “you make sure we do not make embarrassing mistakes.” She giggles at her presumed ignorance.

Adil knows perfectly well that the Wolskis moved to London in ’38, seeing the writing on the wall, and the Countess’ sister is married to a marquis from Oxfordshire. Neither the Count or the Countess are in need of any help. He suspects from the way the Countess’ gaze lingers as the Count watches the dancefloor, that it is boredom and frustration which makes her lean forward, her perfume wafting towards him, and ask, “Now, them, who do you think they may be?” in her near-perfect English, as she gestures to a nearby group.

He plays along, of course, polite and just a hint of humour in his smile, and the Count tips him well. In an hour, they’ll retire to their room, and no harm will have happened. Until then, he and Ruth take turns to serve them, and try to supress their smiles at the sight the two nobles make. If they started laughing outright at the fools the nobility are permitted to make of themselves, Ruth has said on more than one occasion, when they are cleaning at the end of the night, they never serve any drinks, “And then where would the nobs be, eh?”

It is, as these things go, an uneventful evening. No scandalous behaviour threatens any of the guests’ reputations, no arguments risk becoming too loud, no one appears too drunk or too rambunctious and no sirens go off. The time nears half past ten, and Adil knows better than to think that this will last, but he’s enjoying it.

Afterwards, he’s not sure what makes him look over at the officers – they have been fine, occasional loud laughter, and the odd over-enthusiastic dancer, but these things can be tolerated, and most of the other guests glance over occasionally with that mix of pride, concern and guilt that Adil knows all too well. But he follows David’s path across the dancefloor, and glances at the officers, and for a moment, his hand slips on the glass he’s drying. It’s imperceptible, he’s almost certain, a momentary mistake. It’s a sign of how practiced he is that this is the only sign, because he feels like the ground’s fallen out from under him, almost like the bomb that had destroyed the Halcyon two years ago.

Sitting in among the officers (the other officers) is Toby – Mr Hamilton, except that won’t be his title now, but he’s too far away from the men to see what Mr Hamilton’s rank is. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all, and Adil turns away to look down the bar, reaching up to put the glass away. There’s no one who needs a drink immediately, but Adil can see that Mr Rilkington is down to his last third and he is a continuous drinker.

Still, Adil goes into the backroom, winds his way through the storage shelves and breathes deeply. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. It was two years ago, and Adil has not been thinking about Mr Hamilton. It doesn’t matter that he’s drinking at the Claremont tonight.

He’d looked sad, Adil thinks, curled in on himself and pouting, and then he wonders when Toby signed up, whether it was immediately after the bomb, or when he’d discovered Mr D’Abberville had been killed, or –

“Could you grab another tin of olives please?” Elizabeth calls back through the door, and Adil swallows and gathers himself.

Another half an hour passes. Midnight approaches, and Mr Hamilton does not seem to notice him, so Adil carries on calmly, forcing himself not to look at the servicemen and staying close to the far end of the bar. It has reached the point of the night when most of guests are pleasantly tipsy, and no one seems to notice if Adil’s smile comes a little slower or if his replies are less than sparkling. His martinis still hit the spot and his French 75 remains unparalleled among the bar staff. Between them, David and Elizabeth keep the servicemen happy and contented, Elizabeth laughing and keeping carefully away from any wandering hands. It is a good night, Adil thinks. Peaceful.

There’s a lull at just gone midnight, no orders at the bar. The band is playing a slow, sweet song, Faith’s voice low and deep. Adil can’t help looking over. Mr Hamilton is still there, sitting next to an older officer who has an arm slung across the back of Mr Hamilton’s chair. Adil looks for a long moment and then he notices the stick by Toby’s chair. It’s not the kind he’s seen servicemen acquire because they think it gives them style. It’s expensive, and Adil thinks briefly of Betsey saying, “the Hamiltons are never content with anything but the most expensive, never mind if it makes an actual difference.” Its stylishness can’t disguise what it is, though: a walking stick, a version of the kind the hospitals give out to injured soldiers, and Adil’s heart stops, because it must be Toby’s, and that means –

A new guest comes up to the bar, and Adil refocuses, plasters on his most convincing smile, and asks the guest for his order.

The next time he looks over, most of the service men are still there, but Toby Hamilton is not among them.

On his journey home that night, just before the sun sluggishly rises through the fog and smoke, he tries not to think about Toby. He doesn’t succeed. By the time he is back at his flat, he’s exhausted from trying, too rung out to feel anything apart from gratitude at the clear streets, the lack of rubble and fires, the reassuring solidity of the building. He collapses into bed.

He can’t shake the thought of Toby somewhere overseas, hurt and bleeding. It doesn’t matter than he saw Toby alive and well mere hours ago. Something must have happened, and Adil will never know what it was, and it shouldn’t matter because he left the Halcyon and worked to forget Toby. He turns over on his mattress and breathes in deeply. It doesn’t matter, because he won’t see Toby again.

\---

The thought of Toby – Mr Hamilton, he has to remember him as Mr Hamilton – proves hard to get rid of in the following few days. Before he and – before he kissed Mr Hamilton, Adil remembers watching him in the bar, and spending whole shifts trying to get him to meet his eyes, try to coax a smile out of him. Mr Hamilton had always seemed small, scared and resentful and petulant next to his shining brother, but if you watched him long enough, Adil had found out, you’d notice the other things. The way Mr Hamilton smiled as he read, no matter what the subject. The gentleness with which he spoke to his mother and to Emma, his evident fondness for them both. The stupid, surprised look on his face every time someone was kind or friendly or showed a hint of interest in his life. Adil still hasn’t figured out how pampered Mr Hamilton, raised partly in a hotel owned by his father, surrounded by people paid to be polite to him, could always be counted on to widen his eyes (his eyes, Adil hasn’t thought about his eyes for so long) if Adil smiled at him, made any form of extra effort for him.

He doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want to think about the months that he was able to make Mr Hamilton smile properly either, or the way that smile used to feel pressed against his skin. He cleans glasses and serves the guests and visitors with a smile, makes polite small talk with Countess Wolski, and allows Mr Barrington, MP, to complain at length about the influx of refugees streaming into London without twitching. He’s got to the point where he barely misses Emma Garland, who would have had Mr Barrington discreetly thrown out for much less than he’s saying at the moment. In the back of his mind, Mr Hamilton remains an unwelcome presence.

Adil’s mind keeps flipping between the smiling, lovely Toby of the memories that hurt the worst and the way he’d looked in the Claremont bar, the ghost of the old Mr Hamilton who always looked like his father might hit him any minute. Adil misses his cue with one of their regular visitors, an American journalist (another drunken O’Hara, propping up the bar, only this one doesn't care about the English soldiers - he only has eyes for the American forces). Adil gets a half-concerned, half-amused look from Mr Turner. “They keeping you up too late, Mr Joshi?” he asks and then his eyes turn wolfish. “Or maybe it’s not the hotel keeping you, huh? Got a pretty young thing to hold through the night?”

Mr Turner is talking about a young woman, Adil knows, and anyway, he hasn’t held anyone for far too long. But his professionalism remains his refuge, and Adil manages a grin convincing enough to make Mr Turner whistle and then laugh. “Ah, you barmen, you must do all right.” Adil smirks and refills his scotch. He doesn’t think of Mr Hamilton.

\---

It’s early evening on a Wednesday, almost two weeks later, and Adil is wiping down the counter after a slightly overenthusiastic gentleman’s afternoon indulgence. It’s quiet still, only a few of the guests down for pre-dinner drinks. Ruth and Elizabeth have been giving a running commentary on new entrants while they set up the glasses for the evening.

“A lone officer spotted,” Ruth says.

“Ooh, normally they hunt in packs,” Elizabeth says, laugh clear in her voice, and Adil is about to tell them to move back from the bar a little if they’re going to be that unsubtle, but then Elizabeth adds, “Oh, he’s injured.”

He looks over and it’s Toby standing there, leaning heavily on his stick and looking straight at Adil. Adil closes his eyes. When he opens them, Mr Hamilton is still there, but he’s dropped his gaze. Looking at him, Adil can tell it must have been a bad injury – his body looks even more crumpled than normal and his balance is off between the stick and his right leg as he walks slowly forward, shielding his left. Adil wants to offer him his arm. Adil wants him to leave.

Ruth’s the one to serve him when he finally sits down. He doesn’t come to the bar as Adil feared he would. When Ruth returns, he checks her mixing and is strangely relieved to see a relatively tame gin and tonic. Mr Hamilton tends to go for straight whiskey when he’s stressed or upset or hurting, and Adil has no particular desire to try to calm down a drunk Toby Hamilton today.

It takes effort, but Adil manages not to watch him. He manages to square his shoulders and plaster a smile onto his face, and even Ruth doesn’t seem to pick up on the fact that he’s discomfited. The bar is busy, plenty of visitors alongside the regulars, and Adil has a smile for them all, no matter how dismissive or outright rude they are. He doesn’t look over. He thinks he can feel Mr Hamilton’s eyes on him, but tells himself that’s ridiculous. He doesn’t even know that Mr Hamilton came here looking for him, and it is a dangerous path to start assuming that.

Adil almost convinces himself, as ten minutes, twenty and then an hour pass, and there’s no indication of Mr Hamilton approaching the bar. He begins to relax.

It’s an hour and a half after Mr Hamilton came in and Adil’s about to turn to serve the next guest when his sleeve is caught. He looks up and there’s Toby, close, with his eyes wide and nervous.

“Adil,” he says, in front of the guests and visitors and the staff. It doesn’t matter that there’s a lull, this part of the bar relatively clear and the nearest guest already swept up by Ruth. Adil has to fight his instinct to look around, see who could have heard. He’s surprised Toby isn’t doing so.

“Mr Hamilton,” he says, formal and polite. “What can I get you?”

“I want to talk to you,” Toby says, urgent and quiet. “I’ve wanted to talk to you.”

“I am at work,” Adil says briskly, looking down at the marble countertop, and then adds, “this is not your brother’s hotel.” Toby lets go of his sleeve, but Adil makes the mistake of looking at him anyway. Time has not made him any less vulnerable to Toby’s face. The hurt, soft expression is both like and unlike the expression Toby used to wear around his father. Adil’s fingers curl around nothing and he clenches his fists briefly.

“Of course,” Toby says, “I’m sorry.” He turns clumsily, like he’s not used to his stick yet. Adil doesn’t look at him, focusing instead on the next guest, mixing her sidecar without thinking, too busy not following Toby with his eyes.

Adil expects Toby to leave, then. Toby is many things, but stubborn is not one of them; he’s gentle, and easily led. At the thought, Adil has a terrifyingly vivid flash of memory of the first time he took Toby to bed, how eager and easy he was, how keen to learn, his pale, broad hands trembling as he stroked across Adil’s skin.

He swallows and thinks about the chill of the bottle, the ice in the mixer, the weight of the glass, and the precision of his movements.

Toby doesn’t leave.

Two hours later, they are midway through the dinner lull, and Toby has remained steadfastly in his spot. He’s drinking slowly, but steadily, and his uniform attracts some comments, most of which are hastily cut short when the speaker notices the stick, the uncomfortable way Toby holds his left leg. Only an older couple, the Parker-Smiths, linger for any length of time. They lost a son in 1918, and the other was left disfigured by the war. They never had any grandchildren. Mrs Parker-Smith told Adil once that she thought that was a good thing, if governments were going to keep on killing children.

Adil doesn’t mean to, but he watches as she speaks to Toby, patting his hand, and smiling in her kindly way. He can see Toby unwind as she speaks, as surprised and hesitantly please by affection as ever. It’s too easy to slip into his old habits of watching Toby Hamilton.

He likes this job, enjoys working with Ruth and Elizabeth and David, even likes some of the guests, and at the end of the day, he goes home and does not think about work when he’s away from it. But seeing Toby is like tumbling backwards, like the years haven’t happened at all, and they’ve barely spoken.

Adil wants him to leave.

Instead, he finds Toby catching his eyes as he takes a drink to Lord Percy and his mistress, down for the week. There’s a hesitant smile on his face, just the hint of it, and Adil finds his own mouth curving to return it. But when Toby tilts his head, Adil looks steadfastly forward, and he puts down the Duke and the woman’s drinks, nodding and smiling politely as they ignore him entirely. He makes his way back to the bar without looking at Toby once.

Toby’s eyes follow him, though, he can feel them on his back. If he looked over now, Toby would have that expression on his face, hurt and anger and fear, the one that Adil saw far too often after Mr D’Abberville – after Toby ended their affair. After Adil betrayed him and Toby broke his heart in turn.

Adil feels ridiculous and mildly unprofessional, but he spends twenty minutes in the backroom, washing glasses that they won’t need tonight. When he comes out again, Toby’s gone.

\--

The following day, he’s opening the bar when Mrs Parker-Smith comes in. She does this sometimes, when her husband is at his bank, and visiting hours at the sanatorium her son is at are over, comes in to sit at the bar. She’s not a drinker, but she’s a passionate letter writer and she’s told Elizabeth that she likes to watch them, her “young people, safely out of danger”, as she writes. By unspoken agreement, none of them even hinted when Ruth’s house was destroyed in a raid one night, and they pretend that David’s not seeking permission to sign up, even in his late forties. She is easy to serve, tips beyond what is reasonable and makes no trouble, and so on the whole, the bar staff don’t mind talking to her.

Today Ruth’s doing the honours, and Adil is setting up, serving Sir Gerald. Nothing will stop him from getting roaringly drunk between three and six and then collapsing into a sobbing mess whom his wife has to fetch. He has three sons, one dead, one missing in action and the final one somewhere in Cambridgeshire doing war work. Adil feels like this, at least, should be a comfort, but David suspects that the old man’s real sadness is that he has missed both this war and the last and it feels like a loss of manhood. Either way, Adil serves him his port and tries to gauge how long they have before they need to call up to his wife.

He’s making his way back through the bar to get another bottle of gin – cocktail hour approaches – and he can’t help but overhear Ruth and Mrs Parker-Smith’s conversation. “Half a leg, and for what?” Mrs Parker-Smith is saying sadly, “We’re no safer, and we’ll kill the best of this generation along with the last.”

“He’s not dead,” Ruth soothes, pouring another soda for Mrs Parker-Smith. Adil watches her shake her head slowly.

“But what girl will marry him? How will he make a family? What a fate,” she says, disconsolate. “I am writing to my friend, Lord Richmond, he must bring this up in the Lords. How many more boys share his story?”

It’s not until Ruth glances over that Adil realises he’s been standing still, holding the gin. He’s most likely needed at Sir Gerald’s end of the table. He makes a smart turn, and catches Sir Gerald at the end of his current glass. “Sir, can I fetch your wife?” he asks, careful to keep his voice low. Sir Gerald is watery-eyed, three glasses down. It is early, but not unprecedented.

Sir Gerald looks at him and nods once. Adil is grateful that Sir Gerald doesn’t particularly like him. He jollies David along and tells Elizabeth often that she should find herself a nice husband, a pretty girl like her, but Adil and Ruth, he is coldly polite to, and never tries to draw them into his drunkenness.

“I am fetching Lady Constance,” he tells David, tilting his head at Sir Gerald. David nods.

On his way down the stairs to the operator’s room, he tries not to think about Toby’s leg, torn off, the pain he must have been in and how alone he must have felt. He tries not to think about what Lady Hamilton might have said, and about Lord Hamilton, looking whole and hale in the recent pictures which accompanied his engagement announcement.

He doesn’t succeed. Lady Constance comes to pick up Sir Gerald and Mrs Parker-Smith retires for an early dinner, and Adil can’t stop picturing Toby in hospital, the flatness of the sheet where his left leg used to be.

\---

It’s two days later when Toby comes back in. This time, however, he’s out of uniform and not alone. It’s Adil who spots them first. Toby looks as pained as he has done the last two times Adil has seen him, but happier, and it’s clear that Emma’s company bears some of the responsibility for that. She looks radiant and happier than ever, and a crueller person than Adil might say the war suites her. She looks the part of her current role, too: saintly fiancée tending to her crippled brother-in-law. It’s an unfair thought, however, and he does not begrudge Emma her happiness.

“Miss Garland, how are you?” he says, smiling, as she approaches. “Mr Hamilton.” His nod is polite, nothing else. Toby’s mouth turns downward.

“Second lieutenant,” Emma corrects, smiling at Toby. He doesn’t smile back. “Adil, I still can’t believe you left us for this!” She gestures around, as if to dismiss the Claremont’s charms. “You know the Halcyon has been rebuilt? My father says you’ve proved quite irreplaceable and I agree.” She smiles warmly at him, and from anyone else it would seem like flattery, but Emma Garland is always honest, so Adil grins back.

“Unfortunately, I believe the Claremont might agree as well,” he says. “But I am glad the hotel has reopened. And I hear more congratulations are also in order?” Emma doesn’t blush, but her smile deepens, and Adil is grateful Lord Hamilton managed to get past whatever qualms of class and position he was experiencing. He glances involuntarily at Toby at that thought. Toby’s watching Adil, looking cautious, but pleased. When Adil’s smile stays put, he smiles back.

“Thank you,” she says, and then adds, with an airy gesture, “of course the war has to end first. And between work, the Air Force and the ambulance, it’s a wonder we have any time together at the moment.” She smiles again, less happily this time, and adds, “Sorry, we must be monopolising your time.” Adil wonders if she’s trying to convince herself not to worry.

“But you must let me make you a drink,” he cuts in smoothly. “On the house, for my old friends at the Halcyon.”

“By which you mean taken from your wages,” Toby says abruptly, “no, we’ll pay.” Adil tilts his head, acquiescing. Toby looks flustered.

They take a seat once Adil’s put together their drinks order, and chat with ease, watching the other patrons of cocktail hour, including a young couple Adil doesn’t recognise swaying on the dancefloor. He wonders how Toby managed to convince Emma to come, but doesn’t let it distract him too much. He is unsurprised when Ruth corners him a few minutes after Emma and Toby have seated themselves. “I didn’t realise our cripple was your old boss,” she says and laughs at his expression. “I recognise her nibs from those society magazines Elizabeth reads when the ladies leave them behind. Is he the brother? Hadn’t realised he had signed up as well.”

“Well, there is always a preference for older sons,” Adil says, carefully, even though it hurts to think that he hadn’t known either.

“A preference I’d say Miss Garland shares, unless you think she’s switching allegiances.” Ruth raises her eyebrows. “It would be nice to have the edge on the gossip for once if there’s something there,” she adds. Adil restrains himself from rolling his eyes. He likes Ruth, they have a similar work ethic and between her Jewish surname and his brown skin, they’ve developed quite the routine for deflecting any harassment or comments from the patrons. He’s not going to give her anything on the Hamiltons, though, no matter how tempting; it will get back to Elizabeth without a doubt. And even now, he still feels some reluctant, residual loyalty.

Not to mention that were Emma ridiculous enough to set her cap at Second Lieutenant Hamilton, Adil knows far too well she’d be unsuccessful.

“No, I suppose it would be too much to expect,” Ruth says, sighing. “Who gives up a Lord for his crippled younger brother?”

Adil bites his tongue and does not defend Toby.

“You’re certain there’s nothing we could do to tempt you back?” Emma says an hour later, when she returns to the bar for another order. “When’s your day off?”

“Monday afternoons usually,” he says before he has thought about it properly.

“Excellent,” she says. “Come visit us, I’ll show you the new bar, my father and I will make you an offer – you see, we’ll tempt you.”

Adil smiles, and doesn’t let any strain show. He’s aware of Toby’s gaze from where he’s sitting, just out of ear shot.

“It is a very kind offer, Miss Garland –”

“Emma,” she interrupts, smiling, “And at least think about –”

The air raid siren is a genteel low moan, but it stops any conversations from continuing.

It’s been long enough since any serious air raids have been flown that the room is a confusion of laconic assumption of safety and panicked rushing for the shelters. The porters are quick to appear and between them, the waiters and the bar staff, guests are gently, but firmly instructed to make their way down in an orderly fashion and for the most part, they do. Adil’s watching them when he catches sight of Toby leaning heavily on Emma as they walk. Toby doesn’t have his stick. It must have got lost in the initial panic. For a moment, Adil thinks about pretending he hadn’t noticed. But it would look unprofessional, and so he searches, quickly and methodically, and finds it, kicked underneath the edge of the piano. It really is very fine, heavy in his hand. It must be awful, to be so dependent on its weight and steadiness.

He walks briskly down to the shelter, fast enough that he catches up with Emma and Toby. “Second Lieutenant Hamilton, sir,” he says, “I found this.”

Toby’s face is a picture of shame and gratitude. He can’t look straight at Adil as he says, “Thank you” and reaches out for the stick. Their fingers brush as Adil holds it out, and Adil swallows. Toby doesn’t take the stick.

Later, he won’t know why he says it. “Sir, we do need to get you to the shelter. If I can aid in some way?”

Toby looks mulish and Adil is sure he’s about to be refused when Emma says, “yes, thank you.” Adil takes his place next to Toby as she steps aside and waits. Slowly, but without any visible hesitation, Toby reaches out and curls his hand around Adil’s shoulder, leaning into him. The weight of Toby is surprising but familiar, even though Adil’s sure he’s thinner than he was before the bomb. When they start moving, Toby is awkward, bumping into Adil and almost stumbling more than once.

Adil thinks about putting his arm around Toby’s waist to steady him.

“You would think I’d be used it by now,” Toby says suddenly, glancing sideways at him. Adil tilts his head politely, looking at Emma on the other side of him.

“It’s only been two months,” Emma says soothingly. “These things take time.”

“What things?” Adil asks and bites his lip.

Toby’s mouth twists, half a smile, half a grimace. “Prosthetic leg,” he says on an out breath. Adil had known of course, or at least guessed from Mrs Parker-Smith’s observations, but it still hurts to think of Toby losing a part of his body like that.

Toby’s watching for his reaction. Adil ducks his head. “I am so sorry, Mr Hamilton,” he says and it comes out too sincere, too familiar.

“Thank you,” Toby says and his hand flexes on Adil’s shoulder, a gesture of comfort. “My own clumsy fault. Why did I think I’d be suited to the army?”

Emma laughs. It’s clearly a familiar joke. But Adil can tell Toby’s hurting underneath it – another failure, another way in which he’s not quite good enough, doesn’t measure up. Adil tries not to think of how he’s contributed to that; of how he might be part of the reason for Toby signing up.

“Where did it happen?” he asks, as the music from the shelter becomes audible in the distance.

“East Africa,” Toby says shortly, hissing as he overbalances and Adil has to steady him. “Fighting the Italians. My second outing, as it happens. The doctors said it was a lucky hit, actually.”

“I am glad it wasn’t worse,” Adil says quietly, as if he’s hoping Emma won’t hear. She’s being suspiciously quiet, and Adil wonders for the first time what exactly she knows. How much she takes after her father. “I am glad you are still alive,” he adds and looks at Toby. Toby looks so uncertain, Adil has to look away so he doesn’t say anything else.

They arrive at the shelter door. Toby straightens up, his weight shifting from Adil’s side and leaving him cold.

“Your stick, sir,” Adil says, holding it out. This time, it is him who can’t look Toby in the eyes. He’s relieved to go into the shelter and take up his place behind the makeshift bar down there. Ruth has a glint in her eye when he comes in, but he shakes her head and she just smiles at him.

“Glad you made it down,” she says.

“Hopefully a false alarm,” he replies.

\----

After the air raid, it feels like it is only a question of time before he sees Toby again. Emma and he leave relatively swiftly after the all clear – Adil can only assume Emma was due back at the Halcyon – but he can feel Toby’s body along his side like a phantom for the rest of the night, carries it with him home and into his bed. It has been months since he let himself remember Toby like that; months since he’s let himself dwell on the taste of his mouth, the slimness of his gangly body underneath Adil’s, his hands on Adil’s face as they pressed close to each other, as Adil urged him on with his hands.

It’s disconcerting how easily the memories come back to him, vivid and clear. It’s even more depressing that what affects him, more than anything, is the ease of Toby in those moments, his unselfconsciousness – Adil remembers him as smiling, happy, relaxed. So different from the tense, awkward Toby of the Halcyon bar, or the angry, hurt Toby of the month leading up to the bomb. And very different to the injured, embarrassed Toby he’s seen recently. His Toby had never been elegant or graceful, but he’d been playful, unashamed and he was beautiful.

Adil wishes he could shake those memories. He wishes he could shake the memory of how happy he’d been too – that feeling of being seen, being known. Of being appreciated. Of being cared for and cherished and not having to hide some part of himself away.

Over the next three days, four parties of servicemen move through, air force and army, officers and enlisted men. Every time a uniformed group comes in, Adil starts, but Toby’s not among them.

He wishes he weren’t disappointed. That he didn’t miss Toby still. He wishes he weren’t looking forward to seeing him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because every fandom needs hurt/comfort future fic. And fix-it fic. I didn't end up using much of the information from it in this chapter, but I read a lot of Matthew Sweet's West End Front while writing this and would highly recommend it for anyone interested in hotels during WWII. 
> 
> Freddie/Emma content does not necessarily represent the views of the author, simply expedience for the story. Freddie is very much Sir-Not-Appearing in this fic.


	2. The Ritz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The series ended significantly better than I expected, so this has become even more AU than it was last episode. I have worked in some details, but this assumes that Adil decided to postpone disappearing until after the 50th birthday party and so was there for the blast. No letter, no reunion.
> 
> I have taken some liberties with the time line, but assume this takes place in mid-1942 and you won't be too far off.
> 
> The Downstairs Bar at the Ritz was a real thing. See end notes.

A week passes and Adil begins to wonder if he was overconfident in his belief that Toby would return. Maybe he’d simply wanted to confirm that Adil was keeping his secret. Maybe he’d been sent initially by Emma to see if Adil could be tempted back to the Halcyon.

It doesn’t matter really – the result is the same. Adil goes to work and charms his patrons. He even indulges in some half-hearted flirting with a fumbling young lieutenant who hasn’t learned how to be subtle yet. Although his accent is East End and he’s broad shouldered, there’s something about the way he lowers his eyes in the face of Adil’s charm that reminds Adil of Toby.

The thought works like a splash of cold water. Adil snaps back into his professional demeanour immediately. He moves down the bar, and leaves the officer to Elizabeth’s warm smiles and patriotic encouragements. He serves a gaggle of society girls instead, back in from serving tea to the troops, hiding safely in their giggling orders and clear disinterest in him as anything but a dispenser of drinks.

It is approaching eight o’clock. The servicemen move on, and the disappointed girls settle in to wait and see if another group is in the offing, while the older patrons retire for dinner. Adil’s doing a quick stock take of the contents of the bar – it’s a Friday, and everyone has heard about the fresh American troops down from training camp in Cambridge on weekend leave, so there’s likely to be another group on their way through. He’s trying to decide whether he thinks their gin stocks will be enough, when Elizabeth comes up next to him.

“Miss Garland from the Halcyon was here earlier,” she says without preamble. Adil looks at her sideways.

“I didn’t see her,” he says, going back to counting the bottles. Twenty seems like enough, but he’s known that to disappear over the course of a few hours.

“She left you this,” Elizabeth says. She’s holding out an envelope. Adil looks at it for a beat too long and then takes it. It’s small and fits in his pocket without creasing his trousers too much. “You’re not going to read it?” Elizabeth asks, and she’s smiling, but she looks nervous too. “Don’t want to know what Miss Garland has to say?”

“I am on duty,” he says. There’s a long pause where he decides that he’s going to ask Tommy to restock the vodka, they’re definitely running low.

“You’re not thinking of going back, are you?” Elizabeth asks suddenly. “Ruth would hate it. She’d miss you. She thinks you’re the only one who gets how difficult this job can be and I’d hate for her to feel upset or – or vulnerable.” Adil turns to look at her. She’s avoiding his eyes, looking for all the world like someone carefully inspecting the glasses for specks of dirt. There’s a blush staining her cheeks. Adil worries briefly that she might be sweet on him, but then he realises. Oh, he thinks. He might be able to tell her the truth. She might understand.

He says, “Miss Garland’s an old friend, but I have no interest in returning to the Halcyon.” He looks at her until she meets his eyes. She seems to understand that he’s being sincere, because she smiles gratefully.

“Still can’t tempt you to open it?” she says, some of her usual playfulness back in her voice. “I’ll admit to being curious to know what the fiancée of a _Lord_ might want to say to a bartender.”

“It’s probably a job offer,” Adil says, waving a hand, “and we should certainly be getting back to work.” He can see the Wolskis approaching and sighs. He doesn’t press his hand against the slight weight of the envelope as he takes the two steps necessary to appear at the counter, ready to serve them.

Closing time finds Adil and Ruth gently, but firmly, encouraging the last few guests to return to their rooms. It is a delicate art – eyes lowered with warm smiles that seem to suggest that they are deaf and dumb to any indiscretions or untoward behaviour that their guests might be indulging in after they retire, or any aches and pains they might have set themselves up for with their choices during their evening in the bar.

Eventually, even Mr Barrington and his very-much-not-his-wife female companion have disappeared from the bar, and they can clean, clear and set up for the following day. Between the four of them, they have a good rhythm going, and they finish quickly. David leaves first, by common agreement - he has a wife and two young girls at home. Ruth and Elizabeth walk out together – they live in the same boarding house near Waterloo – and Adil thinks he sees a hint of gratitude in Elizabeth’s wave.

He feels in his pocket for the envelope as he lets himself out of the staff entrance. He knows he should wait until he’s back home to read it, just in case it’s something indiscrete. But it seems impossible to think of Toby involving Emma in anything like that (he wonders again how much she knows). And to say Toby knows better seems too mild by far.

Adil slides a card out of the white, high quality paper. It’s the Ritz’s card, glittering and instantly recognisable. He turns it over and on the back, in Toby’s recognisable hand, it reads: _The bar on Monday, 6pm. Please come?_

It’s beyond discrete – no signature, no suggestion of who it was for. The Ritz is a good choice, to a certain extent – better than returning to the Halcyon, or having Toby come back to the Claremont. Still, for a long moment he stands outside the Claremont and contemplates not going. It would be easier not to.

He knows he will, though, and he shakes his head at how easily he comes when Toby calls, still. But he can’t help the smile which spreads across his face and doesn’t fade as he makes his way home across London’s dirty streets.

\---

The Ritz looms large and imposing above Adil. It’s not actually more impressive than the Halcyon or the Claremont, but as he’s walking up the stairs to the main entrance, it feels more intimidating.

It’s ten minutes past 6 o’clock, because it took longer to get to the hotel than he expected and he has forced himself to walk at a sensible pace. The porter’s eyes follow him as he walks into the bar, and he can see one of the bartenders consider him (discreetly, but Adil would still have been less obvious).

Toby’s near the door and his eyes widen when he spots Adil. His smile is achingly familiar, slow and surprised. He wasn’t expecting Adil to come, and the realisation chips away further at any defences Adil might have.

“Adil,” he says, stumbling to his feet, leaning heavily on his stick.

“Second Lieutenant Hamilton,” Adil says and smiles when Toby makes a dismissive noise.

“Don’t bother with that,” he says, “anyway, it’s only a matter of paperwork before I get my medical discharge, so all in all, I was barely in long enough to earn the title.” He closes his mouth deliberately, frowning. Adil’s smile widens.

“All right,” he says, “Mr Hamilton?” It takes Toby a minute and then he must realise that Adil is teasing, because he allows a small smile to creep onto his face.

“I think Toby,” he says, “if that’s all right with you, Mr Joshi?”

“Toby, then,” Adil says, “and Adil will do for tonight.” It comes out borderline flirtatious. Adil straightens up and leans a little back. It’s too easy to do this, slip back into flirting and teasing Toby. He gestures towards the table. “May I sit?”

“Actually,” Toby says, dropping his eyes and blushing, “I was wondering if perhaps we might go to the Downstairs Bar?”

Adil has heard the rumours about the Downstairs Bar. He’s never been, of course – wrong class, wrong colour, wrong job – but he’s heard it mentioned as a place which serves a primarily male clientele, and he’s met a few boys who’ve picked up in there.

He looks at Toby for a long moment. Toby must know those rumours too.

“Of course,” he says.

It’s a roundabout way down, and hardly a glamourous one. The stairs give Toby some trouble, balancing his stick and his hand holding tightly to the bannister. Adil glances up and down, but they’re alone. He steps up next to Toby and offers his arm.

“It’s not –” Toby starts, but Adil interrupts him.

“I am thirsty and this will be faster,” he says simply, but smiles a little to soften it. To his surprise, Toby laughs.

“Nobody ever says that, you know,” he says, “I think they think I can’t tell they’re getting frustrated with how slow I am.” There’s a recognisable note of self-mockery in his voice, but his smile is genuine enough.

“So, have you been to this bar before?” Adil says, partly to distract himself from Toby’s broad, awkward mouth. He looks down at the stairs, moving carefully.

“Once,” Toby says, leaning against Adil briefly as he steps down the stairs. “Before I lost the - . One of my fellow officers.” There’s a pause and then Toby adds, “It wasn’t – Adil, he wasn’t –”

Adil loosens his grip on Toby’s arm which has tightened. He has no right, he knows, and he shouldn’t be surprised. He keeps his eyes ahead.

“It’s all right,” he says. He can hear the music from the bar now, and it’s strange – less restrained that the music he’s used to in the Halcyon and the Claremont, less mannered. The bar sounds rowdier too, loud laughter making its way out.

They make it down to the bottom of the stairs without an accidents or stumbling, but the atmosphere is decidedly tenser.

There are porters at the entrance to the bar, and waiters moving around inside. One of the porters looks from Adil to Toby and back again, clearly assessing. Adil has a cold feeling that he has not passed whatever test was just administered, but Toby straightens up and places his hand on Adil’s back, barely touching, but a clear enough sign. It’s striking – for all that Toby is rather proper in his behaviour and bears the hallmarks of his class in all manner of ways, Adil has never seen him use it to his advantage quite so explicitly. Being the beneficiary is humiliating. It’s also disconcertingly touching, and it strikes Adil how strange this is.

Toby of two years ago would never have set foot in this place (Toby of two years ago would never have known to want to, Adil thinks, and the jealousy from earlier has not faded as much as he’d hoped). His Toby, who lived for their hotel room meetings and furtive smiles and looks across the bar, who flinched at the word queer and who’d been terrified that they’d be discovered, would never be anywhere like this, where he might be seen, or recognised.

Adil’s still considering this as they walk inside and so the décor doesn’t strike him immediately. What it resembles most of all, he thinks, looking around, is a shelter, not least because of the sandbags. The impression is not helped by the mural of the last war on the wall. It’s not as well-lit as other bars he’s been to, and he gets the sense it’s deliberate. The guests are mostly men, and mostly decorous, although a closer look would reveal hands and knees and thighs too close to be decent.

Adil doesn’t look too closely. Instead, he follows Toby to a table in the corner. It’s smoky down here, the air hazy, and he’s very aware of the eyes in the room, voices carrying and laughter which rings out louder than it would at the Claremont. He swallows and sits down on the chair, near Toby, so they won’t have to shout to be heard.

“I am sorry,” Toby says without preamble, and Adil looks at him properly for the first time since they walked into the bar. “I know it’s not ideal surroundings, but I thought you wouldn’t want to come to the Halcyon, and I couldn’t keep showing up at the Claremont. I’d rather avoid any hint that I was becoming a drunkard on top of everything else.”

“Or that you were taking up with one of the bartenders,” Adil says and then immediately adds, “although if you were considering, you should know that Ruth thinks it’s wiser to prefer the older brother.” He’s not sure why he says it.

“I also thought it would allow us some openness,” Toby says, stumbling a little as he speaks, but this time his gaze remains steady and Adil swallows. “You know I wouldn’t be interested in Ruth.”

“So what are you interested in, Toby?” Adil says. “It’s been two years.”

“You disappeared,” Toy counters. “Do you know how long it took Mr Garland to discover where you worked?” And of course Toby didn’t turn up accidentally. Toby came looking for him.

It shouldn’t matter.

What Adil was going to say is cut off by the appearance of a waiter. He’s lithe, pretty and smiles widely at Toby. “For you and your guest, sir?” he asks, and Adil feels a prickle of discomfort again. The waiter’s not even looking at him. Toby looks over though.

“What would you like?” he asks and the waiter takes his lead, turning to look at Adil. Adil places his order, and Toby orders a gin and tonic. As he turns to go, the waiter looks straight at Adil and smiles conspiratorially. Adil thinks it might be a grin of approval.

“You told me to disappear,” Adil says once the waiter is out of ear shot. It still hurts.

Toby is quiet for a moment. “I know,” he says, “and I’m sorry.” Adil watches as he swallows. “I shouldn’t have – there were so many things I shouldn’t have said.” He looks directly at Adil. “I didn’t mean them. Even then. I was scared. I wanted to believe it was fixable. That I was…”

Adil thinks about that for a long moment. He’d known of course, even then, he’d known that Toby was scared and that they were a risk to each other. It doesn’t make it hurt less. Still, he has the urge to lean forward, put his arm around Toby. He looks down at his hands and doesn’t reassure him.

The waiter comes by with their drinks, putting them down with every impression of not having heard anything. They sip their drinks as he walks away. Adil can’t remember what he ordered, would struggle to recognise the taste. It loosens his throat a little. As soon as he thinks the waiter is far enough away, he puts it down.

“And then you disappeared,” Adil says carefully.

Toby shrugs, looking awkward. “After the bomb, after your injury, I – I panicked. I signed up as soon as we were told you were out of hospital.” The words spill out of him. “I wanted to make up for what I’d – what we’d done. I wanted to make it right, and stop feeling so awful and guilty and –.” He swallows and Adil watches him carefully, holding his breath. “And angry. Mr D’Abberville’s death seemed like a reprieve – for now.”

“I am sorry,” Adil says, after a moment. Toby looks at him, surprised. Adil holds his gaze and says, “For making you guilty – for, I mean –.”

“Adil,” Toby says, cutting him off. “It was an impossible situation.”

“I should have told you, but I felt so trapped, so scared.” Adil says, and it’s like a dam has burst, all the things he wants to say to Toby now Toby will listen. “I should have told you and I should have trusted you. But I had to protect my family, and I couldn’t – I didn’t know if you would believe me or if I was –” his voice catches on the d of ‘disposable’ and he can’t say it. He takes another sip of his drink.” I should have told you. That way, perhaps you would have believed me, you would have trusted me and it wouldn’t have –”

“Adil,” Toby says again and Adil closes his mouth abruptly. “I should have trusted you. And I –. But the enormity of it – of what I’d been willing to do – and then you were hurt, and Mr D’Abberville - the problem was gone. It felt like – too much. Too many things.” He drops his eyes.

“And so you enlisted,” Adil says. His throat feels tight and try as he might, he can’t help looking at the stick. “And you didn’t tell me.”

“Yes,” Toby says, his voice shaking slightly.

A moment passes. Adil stares at his glass, and tries not to think about what might have happened if Toby had come to see him, or if he had gone back to the Halcyon. He’d played out those scenarios so many times in the months after the bomb, while his arm was healing and he’d looked for work. It won’t help returning to them now.

Adil says, “So why did you seek me out?”

Toby blinks. “To say sorry. And I thought, perhaps, we could be friends.”

Adil looks out at the Downstairs Bar of the Ritz, at the painted men, the men with hands on their companion’s waist, the young man unsubtly leaning on the bar and making eyes at an older officer, flirting in a way which is visible across the room. And he looks back at Toby, his hair grown a little too long, his long fingers tapping the table next to Adil’s hand, his downturned, pale mouth and his large, hooded eyes.

He doesn’t want to be friends with Toby, but it is the safer thing to be. And he can train himself out of looking again, can train himself out of wanting. He can find someone easier and someone less likely to hurt him again.

“Friends,” he says. “All right, Toby.” It is worth giving in to see Toby smile. Adil smiles back helplessly.

“Good to see a little lightness over here,” their waiter says, swaying into view and gathering their glasses. “Is it time for another round?”

Adil looks over at Toby. Toby nods.

They make small talk for another half hour or so, catching up on those still left at the Halcyon. Toby talks about his brother, the flying ace, with pride and affection, even if he’s bitingly sarcastic on the wedding preparations. Adil studies him while he speaks: Toby’s still the Toby of before, sarcastic, funny, surprisingly insightful. But he’s more careful too – he looks at Adil often, and encourages him to laugh, in a way that he wouldn’t have before. And his leg is clearly bothering him; he shifts, doesn’t slump like he used, doesn’t sprawl. Instead he sits neat and cautious.

When they finish their second drink, Toby checks his watch and makes a regretful noise.

“I think I may have to get back,” he says. “Can I settle the bill?”

As Adil helps him up the stairs, Toby says, “Would you come here again?”

Adil stumbles and they both have to take a moment to right themselves. “On my own? I doubt they’d let me in,” he says, with what he hopes is a light smile.

“No,” Toby says, ignoring the humour, “I meant. You know. With me. Would you meet me here again?” They manage the top stairs without too much trouble, and Adil pulls away.

“I would like that,” he says sincerely. Fearing it sounds too honest, he adds: “It would be nice to catch up further on the goings-on at the old place.” He grins as he says it and tries to ignore the way Toby is looking at him. Toby wants to be friends and he has to be careful what he reads into that.

“Next Monday?” is all Toby says.

Adil agrees without thinking about it.

\--

The week between their meetings passes strangely. Adil almost expects to see Toby at the Claremont again, or Emma, or – well, he’s pretty certain that whatever Emma may or may not know, Freddie won’t, so that’s an unlikely turn up. At one point on Wednesday evening, he thinks he sees Mr O’Hara, which is impossible. It is a journalist, but a British one (The Times, Elizabeth reports, looking suitably impressed). He’s looking for a story from the arms manufacturer dining with the Minister for Defence tonight, lingering in the bar to get a feel for how well the staff know Lord Armstrong.

On Thursday, Ruth notices his distraction, asking if he’s okay. He doesn’t actually know how he feels – he wants it to be Sunday, but the idea of seeing Toby again is also torturous, and there’s part of him that wants to prolong the week as much as possible.

“He’s sweet on someone,” David rumbles, clapping Adil on the shoulder, “Aren’t you my lad? I’d recognise that worry.” David’s grinning, fatherly in his tone. Adil has to strain to smile back.

“No,” he says, and thinking quickly, “just a letter from my sister. About the rebuilding.” It’s not untrue, and he’s been thinking about Priti and her husband, up in Coventry and refusing to come down to London to live with his parents. He knows his mother is still hopeful they might change their mind, or at least relocate to Birmingham, where they have family.

He feels bad for not thinking about it more, actually, and that thought carries him through his shift. He spends the next morning writing a letter back to her, playing peacekeeper and explaining his mother’s concerns, while reassuring her that he understands the desire to live her own life. _I know what it is like to do what they disapprove of_ , he writes, _and to know that it’s the right decision anyway_. Priti will think he is talking about bartending, and he is, he supposes. That was the big decision, the big argument with his parents. But he’s thinking about Toby as well.

He doesn’t know if he’s actually making the right decision, or just making things worse for himself, putting himself in danger again. He’s so aware of what he stands to lose, who he stands to hurt. How he risks getting hurt.

Adil wishes he could write that in the letter and ask Priti’s advice. If Toby were a girl, he would, and Priti would laugh at him. She’d tell him not to go looking at English girls, who would flirt, but wouldn’t settle with him.

Toby’s not an English girl. And they’re just friends.

Adil doesn’t ask Priti anything, just sends his love and his hope for them to find better housing soon.

\--

Next Monday finds them in a similar place in the Downstairs Bar. It’s even the same waiter who serves them, greeting them warmly. “I was hoping you would be back,” he says smiling at Toby first and then more brightly at Adil. “Always nice to see returning guests.” His voice is confiding, and Adil can see Toby’s discomfort clear on his face. Interesting – Toby’s clearly comfortable enough to be in a place like the Downstairs, but not comfortable enough to flirt.

Some devil in Adil makes him ask, “How did you say you’d found out about this place?” Toby’s startled face makes him grin.

“I mean, I’ve always known the Ritz had two bars,” he says, blushing, and that’s interesting, but Adil remembers last week, remembers Toby mentioning a fellow officer.

“You know what I mean, _Toby_ ,” he says and Toby groans.

“You remember,” he says, “I told you –” Adil is aware of being on dangerous ground – he shouldn’t tease Toby like this, and he definitely shouldn’t tempt out his own jealousy. Still, he waits. “I – an officer I served with. My Lieutenant. He uh. He brought me here when we were on leave.”

“Ah,” Adil says and wishes he hadn’t asked, but can’t stop himself from saying, “And is he your - ?” He can’t say the word. He has not been waiting for Toby Hamilton, he hasn’t. He makes himself breathe in. He keeps up eye contact.

“No,” Toby says and Adil exhales slowly, feeling the cold of the glass in his hands. “He – we were, briefly, but – I got hurt the first time I was sent out as well. It wasn’t serious, but there was a moment when it might have been and I thought -” He stops and drops his eyes. “I knew I couldn’t, not with him.”

Adil swallows. He thinks about Toby’s screwed up, angry face, saying that what they’d had disgusted him, and he tries not to hate this man, whom Toby can speak about without regret.

“But you liked him?” he asks, because apparently he can’t stop himself.

“I – I was so confused after what had happened,” Toby says. “I went to the army to escape. I was surprised to find that I couldn’t. Not what I was. And he was – nice. Friendly.”

Your class, Adil thinks, more suited. He takes a sip of his Old Fashioned. It’s not as good as the one he makes.

“Anyway,” Toby says then, forced cheerfulness. “You should tell me what you’ve been up to. What happened after – when you started at the Claremont?”

Their waiter swings by again, all smiles and familiarity. “Another, boys?” he says, grinning widely. Toby nods. Adil follows suit.

“I forgot where we were,” Adil says.

“You were going to tell me about – about working at the Claremont.”

Adil does, for a while, tells Toby about Ruth and Elizabeth, about the Count and Countess Wolski. He explains about the Duke of Northumberland’s party for his daughter’s engagement, and how he’d had to smuggle a former lover of a disgraced appeasement peer out through the backroom. Toby listens attentively, laughs in the right places, and it’s hard not to think about those times in Toby’s room, telling Toby about his family and his past and his thoughts, Toby’s hands in his hair, stroking his back, Toby’s warm body next to his.

Maybe it’s those memories which make him say, suddenly, “I had no idea where you went and I couldn’t ask.” He swallows and looks down at his hands “I woke up in that ambulance, with my arm broken, and I couldn’t ask. All I knew was that I was expected back at work and I didn’t even know what had happened to the hotel.”

“I know,” Toby says and he makes an aborted move with his hand, stretching towards Adil.

“I couldn’t see the – I didn’t want to feel like that again. To know I couldn’t ask and had no right.” Adil swallows and he can’t look at Toby when he says it, it’s too shameful. “To know you might not want me to. And I couldn’t go back, knowing you were there.” He says it quietly, but he can tell that Toby’s heard him.

“I asked before I went out the second time,” Toby says, then. He looks up at Adil. “After I was injured. That’s when I asked Mr Garland to find you. He sent me the Claremont’s card while I was out there. I was going to come see you and then…”

Adil looks out onto the floor of the bar. Across from them, just visible through the haze, two men are sat close, the taller’s arm around the smaller man, whispering in his ear. There’s no deniability in their position. He swallows and reaches out, squeezing Toby’s hand briefly.

“I am sorry about your injury,” he says.

“Yes, well,” Toby says, but he leaves his hand on the table, still touching Adil’s. “It rather put paid to going anywhere for a while. And, well.” He stops and looks down.

“But you came,” Adil says and there’s a dawning happiness in that knowledge, that Toby had been there for him.

“I wasn’t going to, but then James said they were drinking at the Claremont, and I couldn’t not.” Toby brushes his hand against Adil’s with intent, his skin warm. “I couldn’t not come see you. I wanted –“

“Yes?” Adil prompts, trying to look encouraging, calm, despite the hammering of his heart. His mind is a whirl, and he can’t stop looking at Toby, stumbling over his words and his face too open.

“I wanted to apologise. To say that I should have said goodbye and that I should – I should have worked harder to understand. About Mr D’Abberville. About the position you were in. I wanted to say sorry.”

“And you have,” Adil says, watching the way the blush creeps over Toby’s face, the way he bites his lip.

“And to say that I wasn’t. Disgusted. I – you could never.”

“Toby,” Adil says, because it’s too much. Adil has been waiting two years to hear this. He can’t believe it’s happened. He doesn’t know what it means. The sensible thing to do would be to ask for time. The even more sensible thing would be to walk away.

“Toby,” he says again and exhales. “It’s all right.” He smiles at Toby, curbing the urge to reach out to take his hand. Toby smiles back, and this is the first time Adil’s managed to coax this smile out of him for a while, this small, fond curl of his mouth that Adil loved two years ago.

It’s hard not to kiss him, but Adil’s well practiced.

They leave soon after, Toby begging off another drink. They make idle conversation about various Halcyon employees on their way out of the bar. At the stairs, he offers Toby his arm and Toby takes it without a show of reluctance, continuing to tell Adil about Betsey and Sonny’s marriage. It has ruffled more than a few feathers, apparently, not the least of which belong to Lady Hamilton, but so far, they’ve stayed in the band, proving too popular with the guests who do not care to know their private lives, as long as it doesn’t show on stage. Adil is pleased; he’s always liked Betsey and Sonny is universally loved by the Halcyon bar staff.

“Mother worries if I am out too late,” Toby explains as they make their way to the top of the staircase. “I suspect she thinks I have become slow in the head as well as crippled.”

Adil restrains himself from expressing any opinion about Lady Hamilton. “You are neither,” he says instead, “and the leg is, as Miss Garland says, a temporary setback.”

“It won’t grow back,” Toby says incredulously. Adil tries to hide his smile.

“That is not what I meant,” he says, tone light. “You will get used to the prosthetic. And it doesn’t change what you are.” He holds Toby a little tighter, steadying him as they walk up the final few steps. “It’s a mark of your bravery, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.”

“Well, everyone’s keen to declare me a hero, but it doesn’t make people pity me less,” Toby says, smiling ruefully, and Adil thinks of Mrs Parker-Smith. Of Toby’s lieutenant.

“It’s not the first time people have failed to see past appearances and circumstances to see you,” Adil says firmly. “And I don’t pity you. Just for the record. It hasn’t changed you, for me.”

Toby looks at him for a long moment and then moves toward Adil all at once. There’s a precarious moment where it seems they will stumble, where Toby pitches forward and Adil has to catch his elbows and steady him. Adil’s back hits the wall and Toby’s body is so close, all that is keeping him from being pressed against Adil properly is Adil holding his arms.

“Adil,” Toby saying, wonderingly, looking at him. Adil swallows, his mouth dry, and he looks up at Toby. “Are you – do you mean that – do you really think I’m not – that it doesn’t…” His eyes dart to Adil’s mouth, and Adil does the most perfunctory of glances to confirm that they are, indeed, still alone and presses forward.

“Can I?” he asks, close enough to feel Toby’s breathe on his face. Toby closes the gap rather than answering.

His lips are soft and gentle against Adil, pressing only briefly, before Toby pulls back. Adil looks up at him. Toby’s wide-eyed and he looks more nervous than he has all evening, as if he’s bracing himself for Adil pushing him away.

Adil doesn’t want to. Instead, he presses his mouth to Toby’s, hard and unmistakable, tugging him closer until Toby’s hands are braced on the wall on either side of Adil, and Adil can use his hands to stroke up Toby’s back, into his hair. He gentles the kiss a little, opens his mouth and lets Toby in.

Toby has always, always been a good kisser, but Adil had forgotten how this felt, to be kissed with this kind of care and gentleness. The men he’s been with since Toby have been short-lived affairs, where kissing was not necessarily a priority, but Toby kisses like he could stay just here, their bodies resting against each other’s, kissing for hours. Like kissing Adil is all he wants to be doing.

This is not a safe place for that thought, the noise of the bar downstairs still just about audible, the upstairs just outside an unlocked, public door. Adil pulls away gently, one last stroke of his thumb across the soft skin at Toby’s nape.

“We should not, here,” he says carefully. “And we should both be getting back.”

Toby nods, swallowing, his eyes darting to Adil’s lips. He steps back gingerly, and Adil leans down to pick up his stick and hand it back to him. Toby takes it gratefully, stroking his fingers across Adil’s hand as he takes it.

“So what do we – when can I see you again?” Toby asks as they turn towards the exit. Adil thinks about it. He’s reluctant to return to the Halcyon, and cautious about having Toby in his space, as well.

“Sunday morning,” he says finally. “Do you go to church with Lady Hamilton still?”

“Yes,” Toby says, and he looks hopeful. Adil tries to think sensibly.

“My shift starts at three, we could meet somewhere nearby?” he offers, not sure whether he means a tea room or something else. Toby looks contemplative.

“I could stand you lunch?” he says after a moment. “There’s a restaurant around the corner from St George’s.” He laughs at Adil’s expression. “It’s not ostentatious, I promise. I’ll tell my mother I am meeting a friend down from Oxford.”

Adil gives him a sidelong look, but he can’t find any problem with the suggestion.

“That sounds suitable,” he says. Toby looks at him carefully, but he clearly likes what he sees there and nods. He holds out his hand.

Adil takes it. It’s odd, doing this, but neither of them can entirely hide their smiles. It feels like the start of something.

“Sunday,” Toby says.

“Sunday,” Adil agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical information:**  
>  The battle Toby lost his leg in is nominally the Battle of Gondar, and was a victory for the Allies.
> 
> The Downstairs Bar at the Ritz, including descriptions, taken from chapter 7 of Matthew Sweet's 'The West End Front', which once again comes recommended. The mural was a real thing, and the interaction where the waiter assumes Toby will pay for Adil as his date is also taken from that. It's a fascinating read.
> 
> More details on Conventry and the Coventry Blitz here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coventry_Blitz
> 
>  **Other notes:**  
>  Sonny and Betsey both got out! I wrote this before I watched Monday's episode and hadn't the heart to take it out. I love them too much.
> 
> As you may have noticed, this fic now has three chapters. Apologies. Hopefully the fact that this episode is slightly happier makes up for this.


	3. Home

“You seem happy,” Ruth comments on Tuesday, as they’re setting up. Adil glares at her.

“I am always happy,” he says and considers. “And charming.” Ruth laughs, as he expected her to.

“All right, all right,” she says, “keep your secrets. But you do look happier.” She moves away, over to help Elizabeth set up the mixing equipment.

Adil thinks about it. He doesn’t feel happier, necessarily. It’s more complicated than that; he’s aware that he and Toby haven’t actually discussed anything practical, that they may not even be on the same page. The same stupid risks exist as before. And Mr D’Abberville’s death does not solve all their problems.

But he does feel lighter.

It carries him through the service, and he lets himself be a little more playful with the patrons, making sly comments to those guests he thinks might need the bucking up, and being extra charming to his regulars. David rolls his eyes at him, saying that whatever’s got him in this mood had better be worth it.

“David, I am simply doing my job,” Adil protests smiling. David says nothing, but he gives Adil a pointed look as Adil lets Countess Wolski quiz him on the Season, and who is coming out that year. However, even Count Wolski looks interested, although mostly whenever anyone with a connection to Polish nobility is mentioned.

It’s a decent evening. There’s only one major incident, an argument about American involvement and French contributions between two MPs and the Duke of Bedfordshire which appears to be approaching punches when Adil steps in, suggesting that perhaps the Duke would like to retire to the restaurant. At first he seems like he might draw Adil in the argument – or, more worrying, involve Adil in his fisticuffs – but he deflates pretty quickly (Adil has found aristos often do now, once it’s made clear that their behaviour is about to become the subject of gossip, and not complimentary conversation). He straightens his back and walks out, without looking back.

“Appeaser,” one of the remaining men says and his friend makes a noise of agreement.

“One sometimes wishes the bombs could have been more specific,” he says.

Adil wonders if they’ve ever been in a bombed building, and then plasters a smile back on his face. “Gentlemen,” he says, nodding briefly. He retreats back behind the bar.

It doesn’t stay with him the way incidents like that sometimes do – making him think about his arm trapped under rubble, the certainty that he wasn’t going to get out, the breathless fear. The knowledge that Toby was still angry with him, that he wouldn’t get to see him. He lets it go and instead focuses on helping Elizabeth disentangle herself from a couple of pilots, eager and overfamiliar as they lean across the bar.

“Pilots,” she says after, in disgusted tones.

“Our heroes,” Adil reminds her.

“Well, they can heroically keep their hands off,” Elizabeth says, but she lowers her voice in deference to the guests. “Army men at least are usually shy enough not to just try to grab.”

Adil thinks about kissing Toby the night before, the gentleness of his mouth, and makes a non-committal noise.

“You’re smiling again,” Elizabeth tells him and she grins. “Any chance you’ll tell me?”

Adil bumps her gently, as he watches the Misses Dartford and Woodhouse deliberately approach the pilots. “No,” he says, “but I will go over and see if your pilots can be tempted to buy these young ladies a drink.”

“That’s acceptable, I suppose.” But she smiles widely at him, and Adil gets the impression she’s pleased for him.

\--

On Thursday, Mrs Parker-Smith comes in. It’s been a while, she has been in the country with her husband, but she seems pleased to be back. Adil serves her soda as she gets out her letters as if she’s never left.

“I am so pleased you haven’t signed up,” she says, when Adil tops her up and tries not to roll his eyes at the idea that he might have gone anywhere in the three weeks she’s been away. “I was worried I’d come back to find you gone or maimed.” Adil makes a non-committal sound. She pats his hand and returns to her letters.

Adil moves on to serve a non-descript middle-aged man and his female companion, who barely look at him while they order, too caught up in their conversation. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Mrs Parker-Smith beckoning Ruth over, drawing her attention to a specific letter. Adil wonders if she’s asking advice.

Seeing Mrs Parker-Smith inevitably makes him think of Toby (everything makes him think of Toby, and he wishes it wouldn’t). He remembers the way she spoke about Toby, her certainty that Toby wouldn’t marry because of his injury. He’s heard similar sentiments before, the pity directed towards wounded and injured men, the sense that their injuries have rendered them less whole and less desirable. The truly unlucky, a young MP had said the other day, were those already married, doomed to be a burden to their wives. At least the young men didn’t have to worry about that.

His companion had pointed out that this was all the more reason to think about what was to be done for those men when the war was over, to avoid a repeat of the last war. Adil doesn’t remember much of those years, but he’s heard enough to know that there were men in the street, begging for their existence, that soldiers returned home to no particular increase in support.

It seems irrelevant to Toby Hamilton, though; second son he might be, but he is unlikely to be left penniless and unsupported.

Adil realises that one of the guests is the leaning on the bar significantly, and he steps forward, smiling. “What can I get you, sir?”

He mixes the French 75 without thinking – there are few elements of his job these days which require too much focus, and none of them are to do with cocktails. It’s interacting that takes the most, knowing when to make a joke, when to stay quiet, knowing how to calm an argument or gently suggest retiring from the bar. Adil enjoys that part the most. It feels like a performance, but it also feels like a competition – these people who would normally ignore him in the street, who might well wish him back to wherever they imagine he belongs. In the bar, he’s not their equal, but he does have some power over them.

He pours the cocktail and the man thanks him politely, smiling. Adil shakes his head at himself. He’s getting cynical, he thinks, moving around to get another bottle of cognac ready. But there’s a gnawing thought at the back of his mind; he knows when he leaves the bar, the power he has is lost. Knowing how aristocrats and the wealthy behave, knowing their foibles and weaknesses doesn’t matter. Any one of them could ask for him to be fired, and he’d be out and searching.

Mr Turner and a friend of his, an American captain, appear at the bar, and Adil snaps back to attention. “Whisky?” he asks, straight-faced. Mr Turner grins.

“Told you,” he says to his companion. “Say what you like about Britain, but the service is unbeatable.”

Adil pours and tries not to think about Toby. He doesn’t let himself wonder if it’s the injury that’s brought Toby back to him. He doesn’t think about Toby’s lieutenant, and whether he would have taken Toby back with his leg gone.

He can’t decide if the thoughts are unfair to Toby or he just wants them to be. Elizabeth sends him to the backroom for more bitters, and he takes the chance to breathe in and remember the way Toby looked when they’d kissed. The way he’d stumbled over his words when Adil had said he didn’t pity him. And he tries not to think about the waiter’s assumptions, Toby’s hand on his back ushering him in.

There’s nothing to be done about those things. He can either go meet Toby on Sunday or not, and their kiss is still burning its way through him. He can’t imagine not going.

He gets the bitters and goes back out.

\--

He is early on the Sunday, and the moments before Toby arrives are torturous. But then he appears, ruffled and moving awkwardly with his stick, but lighting up in a grin when he spots Adil. Adil waves, feeling suddenly shy.

The restaurant Toby has chosen is nice; not overwhelming and mostly full of young people, uniformed and not, varied accents audible in the din. Adil’s not even the only Indian man there, and he gets distracted wondering if Toby considered that.

Toby gets them a table and they settle in and order while making small talk about the past week. Adil finds himself doing most of the talking, while Toby watches him, asks the occasional question and mostly just nods along, laughing at the appropriate moments. It’s flattering and unnerving. Adil’s one of five children, he’s a bartender, the amount of times he’s had someone’s undivided attention is limited to the encounters he’s had with other men and a few friends back when he was young enough to have much of a life outside work. And Toby, who watches him with clear interest and listens carefully.

It’s a terrifying thought and Adil stumbles over his words mid-anecdote about Lady Corbridge and her erstwhile suitor. Fortunately, the food arrives to cover his awkwardness.

As they start to eat, Adil looks at Toby. He is thinner than he was, it shows particularly in his cheek bones, and the way his civilian clothes hang. But he looks happy here, and looking around, Adil can guess why. Still, he asks, “So, why this place?”

“Oh,” Toby says, looking up from his food. “They actually keep to rationing laws, for one thing.” His smile is rueful. Adil assumes that’s a reflection on the Halcyon. “I used to come here with friends sometimes, when we came down from Oxford.” he adds. “It’s sort of a place away from my family. Somewhere that’s mine and that belongs to my world, not theirs.” Not my father’s, Adil hears, and he smiles, charmed. He remembers Toby as a university student, having started at the Halcyon in Toby’s final year. He was never at his best in the hotel, his father looming large even when not present, but he’d still been happy, easily excited by the ideas and experiences he’d had. Not unlike when he started at the Home Office, and the smile falls off Adil’s face.

“Do you still see your friends from then?” he asks, covering for the awkward pause. Toby considers it for a long moment, and Adil has to be careful not stare too obviously, watch him too fondly.

“A few,” he says. “The war has scattered us as much as any other group. Sam and Alex were killed last year. Different battles – Sam was in the Air Force. Alex died in France.” He says it matter-of-factly, the way Adil has gotten used to people talking about their dead and has been lucky not to have to learn. “Lawrence is in Italy, I believe, and Francis is working in the Ministry for Labour. We used to lunch together.” He seems to remember who he’s speaking to suddenly. “Sorry, it must be terribly boring to hear about people you’ve not met.”

“Do you find it boring when I talk about Ruth or Elizabeth?” Adil asks, his tone teasing. “Am I sending you to sleep when I talk about work?”

“Well, no,” Toby says, and he grins at Adil’s tone. “But you are a very funny storyteller.”

Adil ducks his head at the compliment. “I find you very interesting,” he says, “and I am interested in hearing about your friends.” He looks up at Toby through his eyelashes for a moment, and registers Toby’s blush, his small smile. He wonders if anyone else has ever managed to get that sort of reaction out of Toby.

“If you’re sure,” he says, and Adil’s almost certain the question is not just about whether he actually wants to hear about Francis and Lawrence and the others. He nods.

“Tell me how you met,” he offers, and Toby looks at him a moment longer, and then begins to talk. It quickly becomes clear that Toby’s friends are – were – like-minded young men: clever and sarcastic, hard-working, fond of the relative shelter of Oxford, and outsiders of some sort. In fact, Adil can’t help picking up on the fact that Toby is the most obviously entitled of them – Sam and Lawrence were scholarship boys, Francis the son of a relatively obscure parish priest, and Alex’s father was from the West Indies.

When he points it out, Toby blushes again. “I hadn’t – I guess I hadn’t thought of that. It didn’t seem relevant, you know, in college. You just kind of were, I guess. If you’d made it in, it levelled the playing field a bit.”

“And Freddie’s friends?” Adil asks innocently. Toby actually looks like he’s considering for a moment and then he realises he’s being teased again. He glares at Adil.

“It’s different if you’re a Blue,” he says and at Adil’s raised eyebrows, clarifies, “He was on the rowing team. Most of his friends were either from school or from the team. And you've seen him with his squad. He's hardly a snob.”

“He wouldn’t be marrying Miss Garland if he were,” Adil allows, although he has his own views on that, much as he prefers the new Lord Hamilton to the former.

There’s a quiet moment as Adil sips his water and Toby finishes his lunch, and even as it stretches, it’s not uncomfortable.

As if he’s reading Adil’s mind, Toby says, “I thought this would be more – difficult.” He quirks the side of his mouth up. “Talking like this, I mean. We’ve never really – but it was always easy.” He glances around and says, voice only slightly lowered, “Spending time with you.”

Warmth spreads through Adil, curling under his collarbone. “Yes,” he says carefully. “Most of the time.” Toby nods, allowing the point.

“It’s strange,” Toby says, after a moment. “Even at Oxford, people always knew about Freddie, you know, saw him first. And at school, I was always Hamilton Minor, even though we’re twins. It’s the thing about being the second son – even when people are trying to be kind about it, they’re still drawing attention to it.”

“How do you mean?”

“After I –” he gestures at his leg, “my mother came to see me. And she was distraught, crying, telling me that I never should have gone out. She said that Freddie could have carried that for the family. And she meant it kindly, but it’s still the same point. I am not Freddie. Not as good, not as brave, not the hero.”

Adil considers this. “But you found friends,” he says, “and you found ways of being your own person. Even when your father was alive.”

“And then there’s you.” Toby’s smile is sweet and private and a little sad. Adil is hyperaware of his heartbeat, his hands clenching on his cutlery. “Or there was. I’ve never – I’d never had anything like that. I haven’t – I haven’t since.”

It is far too exposed for the conversation Adil wants to have, the muted roar of their fellow diners an ever-present reminder. It’s far too public for him to kiss Toby like he wants to. Instead he looks down and wonders at how bold Toby’s become.

He likes it, he decides. “Neither have I,” he says, and meets Toby’s eyes. The expression on Toby’s face, hopeful and pleased and cautious, is achingly familiar. Adil is sure he looks equally open and exposed. He looks down.

“And how is your family?” Toby says after a moment, in an almost level voice. “I just realised I hadn’t asked. Is your mother still encouraging Priti to move down?”

Adil’s not actually surprised that Toby remembers, but it still makes his smile widen.

“Well, she wrote recently,” he says. He tells Toby about Priti’s stubbornness, and Dany, still at home and wanting to visit India, Sunil up in Birmingham working in the factory and hating it. It strikes him again how easy this is. They’ve never done this – spent time together in public, spent time together just speaking without touching, without knowing it was snatched time. This is hardly risk-free – they’re far enough away from the Halcyon and the Claremont that they’re unlikely to run into anyone too familiar, but there’s still the chance of someone recognising Toby and asking questions. But it is easy, the lightest Adil’s felt in ages, sitting here with Toby, talking about his family and Toby’s past.

As the beginning of Adil’s shift approaches, Toby settles the bill and they wind their way through the restaurant without incident. Toby’s faster than he was during the air raid, Adil notices, more stable on his legs. He wonders suddenly if Toby had needed his help to get up the stairs at the Ritz, or whether he’d wanted to be close.

The thought makes him grin. “Penny for your thoughts, Mr Joshi?” Toby says, as they step outside.

“A waste of your money,” Adil says, but he can’t entirely smother his smile. Toby’s watching him and there’s that expression again. This time, Adil recognises it entirely. Toby’s thinking about kissing him, he’s almost certain, and it’s an almost physical ache to hold himself back. He breathes in and says, looking at the bus passing by, “When can I see you again?”

He feels Toby watching him. “I don’t suppose the Halcyon’s any good,” Toby says, considering.

Adil shakes his head. There’s too many eyes, too many familiar faces. He thinks about it for a moment and then says, “Do you remember where I live?” They’d talked about it, back before the bomb, and Toby’d asked him for his address, ‘just in case’, even though at the time Adil had been hard pressed to imagine Toby in his little flat, with its damp patches and its unlovely wallpaper.

“Of course,” Toby says, as if it is a normal thing to recall. “After your shift, or -?”

“Tomorrow,” Adil says and he wants to laugh at Toby’s eagerness, but it feels like it might shatter their easiness, this lightness. “After four o’clock. It’s not nice,” he warns, “nothing like what you’re used to.”

When he looks at Toby, Toby’s already looking at him. “I look forward to it,” he says.

 

\--

To say that Adil’s distracted through his shift on Sunday would be an exaggeration. He has worked through more anxious times. It’s Monday morning which drags long. Normally, after getting in at three, he’d be able to sleep through until eleven at least, but Monday finds him awake at seven and with precious little to do. He’d said four o’clock to buy himself time and to get himself in some semblance of order, and, he supposes, as some sort of nod towards discretion, but now he finds himself wishing he had told Toby just to come as soon as he was awake.

He takes his time washing and getting dressed, making his bed, and sweeping up what little dust has accumulated. For once, he regrets being quite this tidy. Equally, he wishes he weren’t worried about what Toby will think of the room – he’d warned Toby. And it was his decision that this was a better idea than going to a hotel room. Better than returning to the Halcyon, certainly.

A quick glance at his watch reveals that it has barely passed half past eight. He thinks about reading, or writing a letter. He could go visit his parents over in Hounslow, but he’d be hard pressed to get back in time, and he hates lying to them, which would be near unavoidable today, given his inability to focus.

Instead, he thinks about the first time he shared a bed with Toby, back in the Halcyon, a few days before Mr D’Abberville had seen him. It had been one of the few times they’d slept in the same bed, and it had been strange. Adil was and is used to catching a few minutes and hours of sleep in odd places, and once you’ve taught yourself to have twenty minute naps in storage rooms and wine cellars, a bed is always easy. But he’d still been aware of Toby’s shifting, his elbows and knees jostling against Adil. Toby had been trying to be still and it had been touching, both how bad he was at it and how hard he was trying.

“Toby,” he’d said eventually, “how would you be most comfortable?” He had been half asleep, mumbling into Toby’s shoulder, and he’d felt Toby go rigid.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Toby whispered, as if keeping his voice down might make Adil less awake.

“It’s all right,” he said, dragging his head up to look at Toby. “Do you need to talk?” Toby got like this at odd moments: he worried and overthought and got inside his own head. Adil had become very adept at pulling him out of it. Although he wasn’t entirely sure he had the energy for the most successful method he’d found. At the thought, he smothered a grin, watching Toby’s face.

“No,” Toby said, and quirked his mouth ruefully, “I was just – I’d never thought to want this.” He said in a rush. Adil blinked as the words set in. Toby went on, “I’d never really understood, you know, sharing space with other people. Wanting them to be close. I – I was never alone as a child, either Freddie was there or I was at school.” He looks thoughtful for a long moment.

“I have four siblings,” Adil said into the quiet. “Having my own space was always something I wanted. It was what I worked for.” He felt Toby shift to look at him, a hand stroking down his bare back. Adil pressed into the touch. “It’s different. Choosing to share as opposed to being made to.”

“Exactly,” Toby breathed, leaning down to brush his lips over Adil’s. “And I guess – I guess I was just enjoying it. Having you here. Committing it to memory.” He laughed, embarrassed, and Adil closed his mouth over the words I love you. It was too soon. Toby was still discovering so much and Adil was honoured to be the one he’d taken a chance on, touched by his easy, happy curiosity, but he was also wary, aware of the likelihood of being dismissed once Toby was more confident. Once he’d met someone from his own class, more like him.

Instead he had kissed Toby slow and warm, his hands on Toby’s face keeping him close, and felt Toby relax against him.

Adil hasn’t thought about that for a while. After his injury, it had been the bad memories that had remained the starkest. Toby’s face twisted with hurt and anger and disgust, Mr D’Abberville’s cruel taunts. The fact that when he’d finally, finally told Toby he loved him, it was after confessing something he’d known even then that Toby wouldn’t forgive.

Now, though, now he lets himself remember and feels the hope he’s been trying to quash since Toby walked into the Claremont rush through him.

\--

Four o’clock rolls around eventually and finds Adil trying hard not to get the broom for one last sweep. The room looks as well as it is going to. Toby is not here for the décor.

It’s six minutes past when he hears the knock. He opens the door and lets Toby in, and then Toby is standing in his tiny room. He looks less out of place than Adil might have imagined. For a moment, he stands there, looking at Toby leaning on his stick in his room, and just looks. His Toby, older and injured, but the awkward, hesitant smile is the same, the watchful hooded eyes. He takes the three steps forward and kisses him gently, warmly.

“Hi,” Toby says quietly, when they come apart.

Adil doesn’t step back. “Hello,” he says instead, and then, “I am glad you came.”

That gets him a soft, fond smile and Adil’s heart flips.

“Of course,” Toby says, kissing him again. “I haven’t been able to think of anything else since yesterday,” he admits, arms coming up and around Adil’s waist, pulling him closer. “I suspect Emma and mother thought I was going soft in the head at dinner last night, mother kept telling me to say something.” Adil laughs against Toby’s mouth as they kiss again. This time, neither of them pull back, and instead Adil’s hands come up to pull Toby closer still, angle his head just so. Toby lets him, and he parts his lips willingly when Adil presses into him, lets Adil lick into his mouth.

Toby tastes so familiar, the feel of his mouth and his tongue against Adil’s are like coming home. Even as he thinks it, Adil registers the usual cautionary thoughts: don’t get carried away, don’t expect too much. He ignores them in favour of moving his hands to Toby’s tie (and of course, of course Toby wore a tie to an assignation, Adil is both exasperated and charmed by that).

He gets the tie off without too much trouble, and slips the top few buttons on Toby’s shirt, his hands stroking down Toby’s neck. Toby tilts his head to the side, inviting, and Adil had good intentions, he supposes, of talking, but this is too tempting. He puts his mouth just underneath Toby’s ear, kissing it softly and then harder and he can feel Toby’s sharp intake of breath and feels his hands clench on Adil’s hips. Adil works his way down Toby's neck, his throat, kissing and licking, taking his time to re-learn Toby’s sensitive spots and listen to the way Toby’s breathing changes. Toby’s never loud (at the time, Adil had wondered if that was discretion or just Toby), but that just makes the little hitches in his breathing, the occasional sigh more precious.

Toby lets go of his hips and get his hands on Adil’s face, cupping his head and pulling him up. This time Toby takes charge of the kiss, kissing Adil forcefully and thoroughly, and Adil imagines he can feel the pent up want of the past weeks in the kiss, in the way Toby’s fingers stroke his face, as if memorising, or re-familiarising themselves. Adil sighs into the kiss and presses his body flush against Toby’s. It is strange, the mix of familiar and new, the sense of learning Toby all over again, but also remembering how this has felt, how Toby’s body will fit against his.

Except, of course, Toby’s body has changed dramatically, as Adil remembers when his knee knocks something that is not Toby’s leg.

Toby pulls back and when Adil opens his eyes, Toby’s watching him warily, waiting.

“It’s one thing in the abstract,” Toby warns. Adil doesn’t roll his eyes, stroking a hand down Toby’s cheek and leaning in to kiss him again, sucking gently on Toby’s bottom lips and enjoying Toby’s bitten off quiet moan. He lets Toby take charge of the kiss then, lets himself be kissed as he strokes down Toby’s side, running his hand over his (too sharply felt) ribs, and down to the curve of his hip. Toby makes a small noise of protest, but he presses into Adil’s hands and does break the kiss. And it’s easy then to get his hand on the button of Toby’s fly, sliding his trousers down, and this is familiar too, the expensive fabric against his hands.

It’s clear when Toby notices, because suddenly he stiffens and jerks back. Adil’s expecting it though, and he doesn’t let Toby snatch the trousers up. Instead they fall to the floor and Adil steps back.

It looks bad. There obvious scar tissue just below Toby’s knee, angry red and torn, and for a moment, Adil thinks he might cry – it looks painful still, the torn and mangled skin where there used to be Toby’s elegant calves and Adil remembers how those legs felt against his hands, wrapped around his. But he blinks back his tears, aware of Toby watching him, and looks again at the leather straps, the almost-elegant prosthetic. It’s clever, accomplished work.

He steps forward and goes to his knees. Above him, he registers Toby’s protests, but Adil ignores them and presses his mouth to the scars just below the strap holding the prosthetic. He stays there for a moment, kissing along the mangled, uneven red skin and stroking his thumb along Toby’s whole and hale thigh, still strong and warm and there. Adil’s almost overwhelmed by how grateful he is to have Toby here, alive and in his flat, and he has to blink rapidly again, squeezing Toby until Toby gasps.

“Adil,” Toby says breathlessly.

Adil pulls back. “You don’t disgust me,” he says and he doesn’t mean it to be an echo of what Toby said to him, but once the words are out there, they feel right. “I am not going to run away or be scared or whatever you think is going to happen.” He rubs his fingers gently along the skin just above the securing strap and adds, “I know you, Toby Hamilton. I am hardly going to turn away now.”

Toby blinks down at him. There’s a moment when Adil thinks Toby might not believe him. And then Toby smiles wonderingly, like he’s seeing Adil for the first time.

“I love you,” he says. Adil feels it like a blow.

“Toby,” he says, his voice suddenly hoarse, and he scrambles to his feet and kisses Toby, both hands on his face, suddenly overwhelmed. It’s a clumsy kiss, sloppy and close to desperate, and Adil never lets himself get like this, always keeps himself in control. But now he presses close, lets Toby put his arms around him and pull him until they’re curved against each other. Toby’s hands are strong where they press against his back, keeping him close.

“I love you too,” Adil says against Toby’s mouth, and it occurs to him that he never got to say that before, that it was never a reply. When he pulls away to look at Toby properly, Toby’s eyes are shining too.

“Adil,” Toby says quietly, tugging him forward and Adil goes.

\--

Afterward, they lay together on Adil’s too small bed, Adil’s arm across Toby’s chest and his head on Toby’s shoulder. It’s not terribly comfortable – Toby has always been bony. But Adil feels sated and more content that he has in – in two years. There’s a lurking awareness that this can’t last; that real life will return at some point, but he’s been adept at ignoring it before. He can learn again. He listens to Toby’s heartbeat, enjoying the thrilling soft-roughness of Toby’s skin beneath his hand, and he feels lucky. As lucky as he did the first time Toby kissed him, maybe, except this time with the knowledge that Toby is in his space.

As if Toby can read his mind, he says, “I like your flat.”

Adil props himself up on his elbow and eyes Toby sceptically. Toby grins at him, too honestly happy to even feign annoyance and it’s contagious, because Adil can feel an answering smile spreading on his own face. He leans down and they get distracted for long moments, trading kisses. Adil’s hand idly strokes Toby’s stomach, catching on the line of the scar left from Toby’s first combat experience, and Adil feels abruptly grateful for his survival all over again. He pushes the thought away and moves his hand along the soft, unbroken skin which stretches over Toby’s hip.

Toby pulls away reluctantly. “I was saying,” he says, and Adil makes a show of listening, cocking his head to one side.

“You like my flat,” he says mock-seriously.

Toby glares. “Yes,” he says and then goes serious. “I wouldn’t mind…spending more time here. If that would suit you.”

Adil thinks about it. It’s hard not to imagine that eventually Toby will become frustrated or overly aware of the shabbiness of the flat. And Paddington is not convenient. But Toby came to the Claremont repeatedly and he came here tonight.

And Toby welcomed him into his space once.

“I would like that,” he says cautiously. “If it’s not lowering your standards too much.” He tries to make it sound teasing, but his voice falters a little.

Toby catches it and reaches up, stroking his face. “Adil,” he says, “when I was in the hospital the first time, all I could think about was how much I wanted you to be there, and how much I missed you. And I thought about you alone in the hospital after the bomb and I knew – I knew it was the worst mistake I’d ever made. You’re the person I feel the most real with – the only person who’s made me feel that way.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m not – I know it won’t be easy. But I am not ashamed, Adil, of you or of us.” He quirks his lips into a small smile. “Or of this flat. It’s yours. I love it for being yours.”

Adil has to kiss him then. “I love you,” he says again into their kiss, “I love you, I love you,” and Toby’s laughing into his mouth, and then Adil’s laughing as well, their bodies still wrapped up together in Adil’s too small bed.

“I love you too,” Toby gasps. Adil kisses his still laughing mouth and feels like he’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with me for this and for all your feedback - I hope it lived up to expectations. I love this fandom so much, y'all are excellent.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback/thoughts/general commentary always welcome.
> 
> Find me on tumblr @dagensdatter.


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